


Filigree

by Jagged



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Porn Battle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-05
Updated: 2011-08-05
Packaged: 2017-10-22 06:21:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/234853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jagged/pseuds/Jagged
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He is seventeen and infamous, and tomorrow she will be queen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Filigree

She hears the stories first; when she next sees him, standing tall and golden in the light of spring, he is no longer the young Lion of Lannister, only Kingslayer. The title rises in whispers behind his back—and hers, but Cersei has ears and eyes, and she can see and hear how they all look at Jaime now, fear and contempt to obscure the old awe.

“Tell me how it happened,” she whispers to him that night as he slips into her room, and the bitter gleam of his teeth flashes in the dark, pale as the cloak that rests heavy on his shoulders. Her hands find their way into the curls of his hair, and he leans into her touch with the rumbling sigh of a lion shaken from his torpor.

“I killed him,” he says. “Simple, really. Easier than you'd think.”

He is being difficult, she thinks. It is not like him, to keep his voice so level, his eyes so low. “What happened then?”

“I waited. I sat on the throne.” He looks up at her now, through the golden strands that are caught and woven in her hand, and there he is, her Jaime; the laughter in his eyes is brittle as a blade untempered, but it is laughter nonetheless. “I thought of you.”

Jaime white and golden, the swords on the throne around and behind him like an iron crown, the blood of a king on his hands. It is a beautiful picture in her mind, and when he leans in to kiss her, obviously uninterested in talking, she bites at him with a hunger that stems from more than mere longing, the two long years since they have last been together. His moan is lost inside her mouth, his hands rise to her hips; they only part when out of breath, and then for a moment they just stand there, foreheads touching, breathing in the same air.

Eventually he steps away. His fingers move away from her, to work at removing the white armour. She follows, unfastens the cloak, watches as it falls to the ground. Then she is undoing the clasp of his belt, taking away his sword. It is heavy in her hand, but it slides out of its sheath easily enough. It gleams in the dim light, gilded and sharp, and she does not miss the way Jaime’s breathing has become just a bit heavier. He looks leaner now, without the plate—hungrier. Seventeen, and he is infamous already; as for her—

“Tomorrow I will be queen,” she says, and he makes a low sound, halfway between a chuckle and a growl. “But tonight—”

She raises the sword, reminded of those childhood days when she wore his clothes and went to the courtyard to train in his place, and he advances until the blade rests against his chest, only a thin layer of cloth between steel and skin. Her blood is thrumming inside her, and her brother looks at her like he wants to fall at her knees, or push her to the bed and tear at her clothes, or kiss her until she forgets she is to be married tomorrow, like he wants to fuck her until the limits between her body and his blur, until they are one and the same, as they should, as they are.

Jaime looks like he _wants_ , and Cersei cannot help but feel that same want rise inside her. “They say you stabbed him in the back,” she breathes, and his eyes are dark. “I slit his throat,” he says, and, seeing the look on her face, bares his. Cersei holds the sword that drank of a king’s blood, and its edge kisses her brother, cool and light and just enough to draw a thin line of red against the long line of his neck. He smiles, trusting and dangerous and _hers_ , and then the sword is left aside, and she is in his arms, the breath pulled out of her lungs as their bodies fall into the bed, their mouths against one another and their teeth clashing, clothes discarded by two pairs of hands working in concert until they are skin against skin, warm and alive and pressed so close, an illusion of being whole.

They kiss like they’re drowning and pulling the air from the other’s lungs; she claws at his back when his fingers slip between his legs, and the keening sound she makes as he curls them right there is drowned against his throat, as she licks and bites at the cut she made there. When he sinks into her she buries her hands in his hair, stops him before he can leave his own mark on her. He is hers but she is not his, not as fully; tomorrow she is wed, and Robert Baratheon must never see, must never know. She makes Jaime look at her instead; holds his head above hers and allows herself to drown in the green mirror of his eyes, as he pants and moves into and against her, his skin half-drowned in deepening shadows, her lips moving around the shape of his name, _Jaime, Jaime,_ her mind weighing that other one, _Kingslayer_ , worn so that she might be queen.


End file.
